


all the things that I refused to see

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Mansfield Park - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Academia, Alternate Universe - Avatar & Benders Setting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Reunions, Gen, Graduate School, Next-Gen, One Shot Collection, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-24 12:59:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12013260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Short Austen fics prompted on Tumblr.





	1. LOTR AU

(prompted by frivolityness: "Fitzwilliam and Georgiana Darcy, LotR AU")

 

Galor came from Rohan, or perhaps further North—that was, his people did; he himself was born in Gondor, son of Araval’s father’s steward. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was this: Araval’s sister, scarcely nineteen, looking up—shock, fear, indecision all running over her face—and then the tears on her face—and then Galoriel rushing towards him, crying, “Araval, Araval, forgive me, please, I cannot think, please, I don’t know what to do, I am  _so sorry_ —”

* * *

(prompted by anon: "D/E, tolkien AU")

 

“I am sorry,” said Araval, for the fourth time.

Lossebeth only laughed, though she still could not quite bring herself to meet his eyes. She had never been shy—but there it was. Besides, she told herself, it would probably give her a crick in the neck if she tried.

“It wasn’t  _your_ doing,” she said. “I know you would not have—”

"Not in those words, but we both know how near I drew to the same sentiments.”

“That was last year,” said Lossebeth. “This is now. Have we not agreed that  _that_ is all to be forgotten? If not I shall be obliged to remember my own misdeeds, you know. How dreadful! I might even make myself unhappy over them. Do you wish me unhappy, Araval?”

He laughed helplessly. “No, of course not. But I—”

"Not another word. Look!” She waved at the nearby field of yellow primroses, their buttery heads swaying in the breeze. “Did you not come to admire the vales of Lossarnach? My mother was  _so_ certain you did.”

Despite herself, she glanced up at him. He wasn’t looking at the primroses.

Lossebeth caught her breath, but she was Lossebeth of Imloth Melui still. She meet his eyes squarely. They were grey, of course, a lighter, clearer colour than her father’s—like ice, she’d always thought. She almost laughed. No, not that.

He swallowed.

"I came as soon as Lady Cadhrían left,” he said.

“Shall you ever have the courage to tell her what is to befall her?”

“I am more likely to want time than courage, Lossebeth.”

“Well,” said Lossebeth, “if Captain Randir’s gratitude did not mislead him, you rarely lack either.”

Araval blushed. “You spoke to Randir?”

“My aunt and I were in Minas Tirith when Lord Denethor ordered the women and children escorted out of the city. Captain Randir was in charge of the guard.” She smiled up at him. “We found that we had certain common interests.”

“What did he tell you?”

Lossebeth just hurried a few steps ahead, skirts swishing against the flowers, then looked back over her shoulder. “Oh, nothing much—except everything that happened on the Pelennor Fields—and his opinion of your management of the fief—and how fond you are of your sister—and what you were like as a boy—”

“Holy Nienna,” he muttered.

She held her hand out, cheerfully curling her fingers about his as she led him off the main path. “Are you going to tell me now that you  _don’t_ care for your sister?”

“Of course not!” Araval said, then flushed again. “Oh. You’re laughing at me.”

“Only a little,” said Lossebeth.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crocordile/jubah prompted "Mary Crawford/Fanny Price, AU where Mary does marry Edmund after all" for a three-sentence meme.

After the wedding, of course, there was no escaping one another’s company. Fanny sat with her new cousin every day, listened to her play the harp, or talk in her light, amusing (kind) way, thinking furiously about how trivial and pretty and brittle she was. Sometimes Edmund was there and sometimes he was not; and one of the times he was not, Mary laughed at something Fanny couldn’t see—patted one of Fanny’s curls back into place—and for no reason at all, leaned over and kissed her.


	3. Mary/Fanny, Hogwarts AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crocordile/jubah prompted "mary/fanny hogwarts au" for a three-sentence meme.

Fanny didn’t know why she went to the Gryffindor Quidditch practices. For one, she wasn’t even a Gryffindor; for another, she didn’t  _like_ Quidditch; and perhaps most of all, Edmund had gone. It was one thing to sit with him through the long chilly hours, dutifully watching Tom and Maria as they talked—quite another to watch Mary dart around the field, quick and graceful, while Henry tried to catch her attention.


	4. Pregnancy, canon-compliant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagineyourotp posted "Imagine your OTP finding out they’re pregnant."

“And I really do think my condition will put an end to the estrangement. Lady Catherine will never permit me to bring her great-nephew or -niece into the world without the benefit of her advice. For the sake of family peace, I think I must hope for a daughter. She is sure to descend on Pemberley, and we both know that she will announce that if _she_  had ever borne a son, she would have produced a far superior one. I shall not be able to keep a straight face.”


	5. Darcy/Elizabeth, Hogwarts AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> survivingrealitywithoutnormality asked:
> 
> "So, if you're taking Darcy/Elizabeth prompts, I think you've written Hogwarts AU of the character before (tis v. important all the fandom stalwarts are covers obviously) but maybe their meeting in that universe?"

They first saw each other at her Sorting.  _Met_ would be putting it strongly. Elizabeth spared little attention from the Sorting Hat, and then from the warm welcoming clamour of the other Gryffindors; one more face at the Ravenclaw table meant nothing to her. Darcy, for his part, felt as little interest in other Houses’ first-years as any thirteen-year-old boy could. He remembered her only as the girl who got Sorted before Professor McGonagall had even let go of the Hat.

* * *

They didn’t meet the next year, either, or the one after that. Elizabeth had Quidditch to enjoy and Transfiguration to hate; Darcy took his duties as Ravenclaw prefect very seriously, but felt little interest in Quidditch, or anything else that didn’t involve books. He knew her sister Jane a little better, as she was in his year—but only a little, as she was in Hufflepuff.

* * *

The trouble started when Darcy, rushing to class, ran right into her and knocked her books out of her arms. This might have been forgiven, but he not only failed to apologize or help pick up the books, he snapped  _out of my way, idiot_ and clattered down the stairs. Elizabeth glowered after him, then hung on to the rails as the staircase shifted around,  _then_ saw one of her books fall to the next floor. Sure enough, it was her Transfiguration book. She thought of just leaving it there, but it had been her father’s and was filled with useful notes—and she couldn’t really afford a new one, anyway, since Lydia had insisted on new everything for her first year. By the time she recovered the book and ran to class she was fifteen minutes late. McGonagall being McGonagall, she took five points from Gryffindor.

Elizabeth didn’t try and blame it on Darcy. She wasn’t one who went tattling to professors. Instead, she just told the story in the Gryffindor Common Room, while half the house rolled in laughter, and won back the points from Flitwick. It’d have been better if Jane and Charlotte laughed, too, but Jane’s crush on Charles Bingley kept her from thinking badly of any of his friends, and Charlotte—well, Charlotte was in Slytherin. She had an entire different standard of bad behaviour.

“He was probably having a bad day,” she said, shrugging. She didn’t say  _idiot_ was nothing to  _Mudblood_ , but she didn’t have to.

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just an arse.” A little uncomfortable, she gave Charlotte a playful nudge. “He’s not a Slytherin—one of those awful purebloods in Slytherin, I mean. I hold Ravenclaws to a little higher standard.”

Charlotte did laugh at that. “Well, he’s in the dungeons often enough. He has lots of family in Slytherin. Colin Fitzwilliam, for one.”

Colin Fitzwilliam had been the only significant threat on the Slytherin team. As far as Elizabeth knew, he was otherwise inoffensive. But she knew there’d been a Death Eater called Fitzwilliam. It didn’t really surprise her that even a Ravenclaw cousin would turn out a total bastard.

* * *

Elizabeth didn’t waste much of her time dwelling on Darcy. Charlie Weasley, otherwise easy-going, was a tyrant over the Gryffindor team, and because he liked Elizabeth and valued her as an excellent Chaser, he went even harder on her. She still struggled with Transfiguration and hated Arithmancy, and now, of course, she had Lydia and Katie to keep under control. Thank God Dumbledore hadn’t made her a prefect.

She did nurse her grudge enough to laugh when she heard Darcy’s first name—less because it was odd by wizarding standards, and more because  _of course_ it was Fitzwilliam. And she felt a different, less pleasant sort of satisfaction when she saw him talking to Danae Rosier, one of the Slytherins in his and Charlotte’s year. Rosier didn’t go for curses, like some of the other Slytherins (and other Rosiers), but she’d made Charlotte’s life unpleasant enough.

Unfortunately, avoiding Darcy soon became impossible. Jane and Charles—Charles Bingley, not to be confused with the terror of the Quidditch field—finally started dating that year. Since Darcy, a year older than Charles, acted less like a friend and more like a suspicious mother bear, Elizabeth inevitably found herself face-to-face with him.

“You haven’t met, have you?” Bingley said, cheerful as ever.

“No,” said Darcy.

“Not exactly,” said Elizabeth.

“Darcy, this is Elizabeth Bennet, Jane’s sister. Lizzy, this is Darcy, a good friend of mine.”

He nodded at her. “I’ve heard about you from Jane. Nice to meet you at last.”

Elizabeth didn’t believe  _that_ for an instant. Apparently he could be polite in front of his friends. Well, Jane might have said good things about her.

All right, definitely had.

“Same,” she said, and added dryly, “I’ve seen you around once or twice.”

Darcy just looked confused; no doubt he shoved and insulted enough people that one particular instance didn’t stand out to him. Sadly, it didn’t make him any less attractive, something which she’d never noticed from an annoyed distance. He looked like—honestly, not like anything in particular. Certainly not his cousin the Beater, who’d always reminded her of a troll. Darcy … well, she didn’t go for the sharp, inbred look herself, but if she hadn’t known anything about him, she might have made an exception.


	6. Darcy/Elizabeth, Lady Catherine never visits Longbourn

They stood up at the wedding together—she, the bride’s sister; he, the bridegroom’s friend. It was only proper.

Elizabeth refused to give in to melancholy. Not on Jane’s wedding-day. Her sister all but shone today, as happy as Elizabeth had ever seen her; Bingley beamed around as Jane signed the registry. Mrs Bennet, ecstatic, tried to cry. Mr Bennet really did. Even the gossips who had been happy to condemn Lydia to the streets congratulated Jane warmly. Darcy, with fewer words but rather greater sincerity, wished them both joy.

“I am sure they will have it,” Elizabeth said, almost to herself.

“Yes,” said Darcy firmly. She almost laughed; he sounded as if he dared Fate to meddle with his choice. Those whom Darcy hath joined together—!

She spared a moment from pleasure on Jane’s behalf to glance up at him, smiling. Even for her own sake, no unhappiness touched her. If not exactly encouraging, he had not been discouraging either, and—she reasoned with herself—he had reason to take care where she was concerned. The marriage would undoubtedly throw them together. And she knew herself to be looking very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've longed to either write or read a "what if Lady Catherine never heard the Lucases idle and out-of-nowhere gossip about Darcy and Elizabeth?" AU for _years._ It just never quite comes together.
> 
> (I've written/read plenty of AUs where she doesn't visit, but almost always as an incidental point to a larger plot. The Lady-Catherine-never-shows-up of my dreams is the one where that _is_ the plot—Darcy and Elizabeth are left to fumble through their relationship without any shortcuts.)


	7. Fitzwilliam/Georgiana NOTP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> manicpixiedreamwyn prompted NOTP hatefic, lol.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was fond of dancing, and fond of flirting, and would have very much liked to attend carefully to the young lady at his side. However, just at that moment, a certain gentleman of his acquaintance— _unfortunately_ of his acquaintance, as Sir John Wilcox was a blackguard and worse—made his way across the periphery of the ballroom. Various groups of people backed out of his way, rather than be run down in his determination to reach his object.

The object in question was a pretty girl of eighteen, modest in demeanour, quietly and pleasantly well-looking rather than a striking beauty. Her chief attraction was an abundance of richly coloured dark hair, well set off by a pale green gown in the latest fashion. (The colonel had five sisters, who kept him well acquainted with these matters.) Her features were regular, rather too severely so for her otherwise soft, mild face; her brother bore them to greater advantage, as did the colonel’s own brother, two of his sisters, and his father and aunts before them. Still, nobody could call her plain, even were she not an heiress.

Colonel Fitzwilliam alternated his attention between the girl and the lady with him, hoping the latter would not notice. Alas! He could not quite keep the grim expression off his face, and her gaze followed his, to Sir John dancing attendance on the girl. She frowned, then smiled up at him.

“Oh, is that—I believe it must be Miss Darcy! Such a handsome girl, and  _so_ accomplished.”

Fitzwilliam winced. “Forgive me! Are you acquainted with my cousin?”

“No, indeed. I did not know of the connection until this moment; I have never spoken to her, nor heard a word out of her mouth." 

Despite himself, he laughed. "Many of our closest friends could say the same. You need not feel slighted. She and her brother are very reserved—Georgiana particularly, for she is a timid little creature into the bargain.”

“You seem very fond of your cousins,” she remarked, after a turn in the dance.

“Immensely,” he replied. “We were all brought up together, at Pemberley and Ecclesford, and I cannot imagine a better friend than Darcy. I have always had the highest opinion of Mrs Darcy, and Miss Darcy has a particular claim on my affections; her brother and I are joined in responsibility for her upbringing.”

“Joined in—” His companion’s expression cleared. “Oh!—Miss Darcy is your  _ward?_ ”

He nodded.

“Even now? By the look of her, I would have thought her of age." 

"She was just eighteen in August.”

“Eighteen? I had no idea of her being so young.” She glanced over at Georgiana again. “Good heavens, is that Sir John Wilcox prattling at her? Perhaps we should go rescue her. No, we must. I cannot imagine how he got his reputation, you know. He is the most frightful bore.”

“Thank you, Miss Crawford,” he said, drawing her out of the set. “I am sure she would find your company much more pleasing.”


	8. Family Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon prompted, "D/E, visiting mrs and mr bennet."

Lydia assured the family that her dear Wickham had only had some pressing business in London and would be with them before a week had passed. Mrs Bennet fretted that the early snow might have caused an accident, while Jane repeatedly assured her that the Darcys were not expected until tomorrow and doubtless the journey would be very comfortable.

“Of course it shall be comfortable!” Mrs Bennet indignantly returned. “With such fine carriages, how could it not be?”

Jane sighed and gave the matter up as hopeless. Her hopes were answered, however. The Darcys’ carriage proved as indomitable as its inhabitants, and news of their coming spread more quickly through Meryton than they did themselves.

“Did you hear that, girls? The beautiful Mrs Darcy, that’s what she called her. What a sensible woman Mrs Long is, and one of her nieces has done very well for herself.” After all, one thousand a-year was nothing to scoff at, even if the Gouldings were not quite genteel. Nothing to Mr Darcy with his estates and ancient lineage, but then, the Miss Longs were so very plain. Miss Henrietta had done as well as could be expected.

“I wonder why they stopped,” Jane said. “Is that when Mrs Long saw her?”

“Oh, how should I know?”

“I do not see what the fuss is,” Lydia said. “Anyone can be beautiful on ten thousand a-year, even Mary. Lizzy is quite old now, besides.”

“Lydia!” Jane exclaimed. Mary opted not to hear and continued reading.

“She ought to be more generous,” Lydia extemporised on her favourite theme; “she can well afford it, after all. Why should I not have more dresses to entertain in? And if I do not have another bonnet, I shan’t be able to hold up my head among the other officers’ wives. I suppose because she is Mrs Darcy she thinks herself better than us all.”

Jane set her teacup down with a clatter. “Lydia, you know perfectly well that is not true. You must try and practice economy, at least a little.”

“That is easier for you to say,” Lydia retorted, “when your husband has five thousand a-year.”

“Even Jane does not spend three-quarters of her money on fripperies,” said Mary.

“Jane does not need—”

The servant opened the door and cleared his throat. “Mr Darcy, Mrs Darcy, Master Darcy, and Miss Darcy.”

Chaos ensued, the instant the couple set foot in Mrs Bennet’s drawing room. Darcy was not so patently uncomfortable in the presence of his wife’s family as on the last visit, five years prior, and a little less reserved; Elizabeth’s manner and dress were rather more elegant. In all else, the pair was very much as they had ever been. Sisters and mother surrounded Elizabeth, as ever exclaiming over her, from dress to combs to jewellery.

“Why do you not wear more lace, Lizzy?” Lydia demanded. “If I had as much money—”

“I think—”

“Oh, who cares what you think, Mary? You’re not even married.” Mary sniffed and retreated to the corner.

The couple exchanged a single expressive look before facing the onslaught, while their children stared in undisguised astonishment. Underneath the hubbub joyful greetings were exchanged, Elizabeth and Jane quickly embracing each other, Lydia complaining and Mrs Bennet admiring with equal fervour.

“Is it not delightful,” cried Mrs Bennet, “to have the whole family together again?”


	9. Jane/Bingley, SW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heckofabecca prompted "Jane/Bingley, Star Wars" for the three-sentence meme.

At first, the Bei Lings thought Jaina might be some distant cousin of Fel’s, but she freely admitted that she was merely a Skywalker namesake, not one herself. Caravina’s initial enthusiasm faded, but she still liked the senator for herself. Caravir, far closer to Skywalker Fel, and through him much more familiar with the demands on Jedi in general and Skywalkers in particular, just managed not to sigh in relief.


	10. Darcy/Elizabeth, modern AU

Darcy lived in a tall, narrow building wedged between a barbershop and a fraternity, just across from a Starbucks and down the street from the expensive new dorms. The dorms shone silver-bright under the summer sun, windows wide and gleaming; twelve hundred dollars a month, she’d heard, and assumed that was what he meant by  _a little studio off-campus, just off the freeway._

Assumptions, Elizabeth thought, had never taken her far with Darcy. She turned around to peer up at his building, shielding her eyes. The faded bricks and arching doorways were pretty in an unobtrusive way; the tiny windows weren’t, but Elizabeth liked them nevertheless. Nearly all had been brightened by curtains—blue, yellow, white with pink and teal polka dots. One tenant had stickers plastered over the glass:  _Math Club_  and  _I Voted!_ and  _I ♥ German Shepherds_  and _ASDSU–Where Are Your Tuition Dollars Going?_ Another had never bothered to take their Christmas lights down.

Horns blared not far away, where afternoon traffic crawled onto the freeway ramp. Pedestrians, mostly students, hurried across the crosswalks, their booted feet making better progress than the wheels of the cars. A fire engine wailed. Down the street, a girl in a short blue skirt and green leggings was struggling with a bicycle rack and swearing while another girl laughed and reached for the lock.

It was noisy, busy, painfully bright. Worse than Meryton on a bad day. Elizabeth thought she might be in love.

It all depended on the funding package, she reminded herself, even if she did get accepted, but she couldn’t help smiling. Elizabeth rang the buzzer, while Maggie and Ned hovered behind her, whispering  _d’you think it’s Victorian?_

“Number, please?”

Her mind went blank. “Um,” said Elizabeth. “Sorry, I don’t know the apartment number—I, I’m a friend of Darcy Fitzwilliam’s—”

Now that was a sentence that she wouldn’t have dreamed of uttering six months ago. Or one month ago, really.

“Just a sec.”

A minute later, they heard someone clattering down stairs, and she made out Darcy through the glass: fuzzy, but too tall and, and  _Darcy_ to be anyone else. When he opened the door, he resolved into himself, edges of his face sharpening, the blurry shape of his hand a clenched fist that relaxed as soon as he passed through the doorway. He wasn’t quite as buttoned-up as she remembered. Well, his white shirt was still buttoned almost to his neck, but he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and the hem was a little wrinkled. He looked nice, she thought, absurdly gratified.

His eyes, wide behind his glasses, went straight to Elizabeth; his mouth curved into a slight smile. More tentative than the ones she remembered, certainly more than the one she’d seen in his picture at the Pemberley department.

“Hi,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t know if you’d be coming or I’d have been down already.”

“You didn’t get my text?”

Darcy’s smile turned sheepish. “I lost my charger. My phone died this morning.” Now his gaze flicked over to Maggie and Ned. “You must be Elizabeth’s friends.”

“Edward Gardiner and Maggie Lamb,” said Elizabeth. “Ned is my cousin, actually. We’ve known each other since kindergarten.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I’m Darcy Fitzwilliam,” Darcy said, shaking hands with both of them. He’d been friendlier in the last twenty-four hours than the entire rest of the time she’d known him. Had he changed that much? It couldn’t be because of what she’d said, could it?

Elizabeth remembered Reynalda in the English department.  _He’s such a sweetheart with the undergrads, especially the freshmen. Ask anyone who’s had a class with him or gone to the writing center or, well, anything_ _._  She bit her lip, unsure; Ned’s and Maggie’s replies barely registered.

“Come on inside,” he said, swivelling on his heel. A shadow of his old bossy arrogance, maybe. As they followed him upstairs, he said, “Bing and Georgiana aren’t here yet, but I think there’ll be chairs enough for everyone. The apartment’s a hole in the wall, though. I hope you don’t mind.”

Maggie laughed. “We’re grad students. We don’t judge.”

“Oh, you too?” Darcy actually looked interested as he pushed the door open, then held it for all of them.

The room was small, and ridiculously adorable. Elizabeth’s eyes went from round, fuzzy rugs tossed over the wooden floor, one blue and the other purple, to an old-fashioned bronze lamp set on a nightstand—no, on a filing cabinet with a tablecloth draped over it—to the books crammed sideways on two cases and overflowing onto virtually every spare surface.

Judith Butler and Roland Barthes leaned against the microwave; bell hooks perched with Derrida and Foucault on a windowsill.  _The Making of Victorian Values_ and  _The Gentleman’s Daughter_ were on the point of teetering off the file cabinet. His desk was stacked high with textbooks.  _Contemporary Linguistics_ ,  _Cognition: Exploring the Science of the Mind_ ,  _Fundamentals of Abnormal Psychology_ _._  A critical edition of  _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_ and another of  _Fantomina and Other Works_. And—Elizabeth bit back a grin—two Heyer novels, of all things.  _Frederica_ and  _Death in the Stocks._

“—oh, you speak Italian?” Darcy was saying, unfolding two chairs and gesturing vaguely at the sofa, which she suspected doubled as his bed. At least she didn’t see an actual bed anywhere else, and the cast iron frame, curved into lovely swirling designs, looked like an investment. Yes, she could just make out the trundle beneath it.

Elizabeth sat in one of the chairs, leaving the couch to Ned and Maggie. Funny. She’d always figured he must be rich.

“Not really,” said Maggie. “I mean, not like Italy Italian. I can read and write it pretty well. I’m better with Renaissance Italian than modern, though!”

“That’s me and French,” Darcy said. “Well, eighteenth century, but you know.” He looked over at Elizabeth, who immediately blushed and glanced at the nearest thing to catch her attention. The refrigerator. It was small, maybe three feet high, and covered in drawings: some childish and faded, others sketches and paintings dated within the last five years, plainly created by a steady, mature hand.

“Those are lovely,” she said, pointing at a black and white drawing of a cathedral. Charcoal? She didn’t really know anything about art. “You have an artist friend?”

Darcy’s face broke into a sudden bright smile, his posture straightening. Elizabeth guessed even before he spoke.

“An artist sister,” he said. “Georgiana’s been drawing since she could hold a pencil in her hand.”

Ned walked over to look more closely at them.

“These here are very good,” he said, the sweep of his hand taking in a constellation of watercolours, all from the last two years. “Oh, sorry. I’m an art student myself, so—”

“No, I’m sure she’d be thrilled to hear it. She’s not, uh, overburdened with confidence. I tell her she’s brilliant, of course, but, well, she’s eighteen and I’m just a brother who doesn’t know anything about art. She says she could spill paint on a paper and I’d say the same thing.” Darcy laughed. “She’s probably right. I can hardly draw a straight line, myself.”

He had a nice laugh, clear and warm. Elizabeth thought it might be the first time she’d ever heard it.

“She’ll find amateur art critics every time she turns around,” said Elizabeth. “But you’re her brother. Your only job is to think everything she does is unqualified genius. At least, that’s what my little sisters tell  _me_.”

He laughed again. “Then I must be the perfect brother.”

“Sounds like it.” Elizabeth hardly noticed Maggie and Ned on the couch. “She’s lucky to have you.”

Darcy stared at her, cheeks reddening. But before he could say anything, a sharp knock came at the door. He sprang up so quickly that he almost toppled his chair over.

“That’ll be Bing.”

As he rushed over to the door, Elizabeth belatedly remembered Maggie’s and Ned’s existences. She looked over at them, a bit sheepish.

Maggie just lifted an eyebrow.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not easy being incredibly attractive, but everyone has their burdens. :P

Fitzwilliam is a beautiful child.

He doesn’t mind that. He likes everything around him to be pretty, even his reflection, and people are always nicer to him and George and Phylly than to Jack and Anne.

He does mind that strangers keep congratulating his mother on her adorable little girl. He isn’t adorable, and no matter how many times it happens, George and Jack act like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

Once, when he was very small, somebody even thought he was Anne’s little sister, and now she mentions it every time he sees her. Fitzwilliam is darkly certain she’ll still be telling people about it after they get married. (He doesn’t know when that is going to happen, but he hopes it is a very, very long time away.)

Eventually, of course, it becomes obvious that he isn’t a girl. The detested ringlets are cut off during a childhood fever and never come back; his skin draws tight over his cheekbones; his shoulders broaden; and at fifteen, he’s almost six feet tall. He even manages to add three or four inches more by his twenties. If his father were alive by then, his head would scarcely meet Darcy’s shoulder.

Less than a year after Darcy’s marriage, he and his cousin are given reason to speak with Wickham. It is the first time they have done so in years. The last time all three were under the same roof, Wickham had returned just long enough to hear the reading of the will, and then-Captain Fitzwilliam had not deigned to acknowledge his existence.

The last time all three actually _spoke_ to one another was years before that, when they were still Jack and Fitzwilliam and George and the world was at their feet. An elderly gentleman had just suggested that the young lady should stop running around in her brother’s clothes and Jack and George were all but screaming with laughter.

Now they are Colonel the Honourable John Fitzwilliam, and Mr Darcy of Pemberley, and that bastard Wickham. The latter is eyeing the Fitzwilliam cousins with an expression that suggests he might relieve himself at any moment. Fitzwilliam returns to the look with a glare, while Darcy contents himself with a smile.

Some small, petty, childish part of himself cannot help but relish the moment. After all, he is rich and married and happy, and he towers over them both.


	12. Darcy/Elizabeth, ATLA AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sqbr prompted "Darcy/Elizabeth + the Water Tribe."

Lizhi had never seen the Water Tribes. In fact, she had never left the Earth Kingdom, or seen much of  _that_ except her own village and the tea shop her uncle owned in Ba Sing Se. But the shop was doing very well, and when he decided to visit the North, his wife’s home, they invited Lizhi to come with them.

Lizhi enjoyed the journey—she liked seeing new things—but as they approached the Northern Water Tribe, she couldn’t quite rid her mind of the fear that  _he_ might be there. It was his home, after all. For awhile she was distracted by the grandeur of it all, the icy towers, the blasts of water, the elaborate fashions; then she caught a familiar word from her aunt.

“I’d like to see the Fa estate again. It’s a little off the main path, but not far, and I grew up nearby.”

Lizhi’s heart gave a decided thud. “Oh,” she said. “But haven’t we seen enough ice houses for one week? I never thought I’d say it, but I’m growing a little tired of them.”

“Don’t be silly,” Aunt said. “As if it’s just another house!”

So they went, walking past intricately carved pillars and over beautiful arching bridges. She felt awkward in her borrowed boots and green clothes, but the servants treated them as if they were honoured guests. And they praised their master to the skies.

Lizhi, by some quirk of blood, was a firebender—but she’d never seen a place she liked more. Contentment seemed to hang over it all, almost a palpable thing. 

Then they strolled around a glimmering wall and she all but walked straight into Darak’s chest. Lizhi would have gladly sunk into the ice.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know…"  _I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t know you had even come back to the North!_

 _I didn’t know you were actually a good person. It must be awful to be around me now, I wouldn’t have come if…_ Was it awful? Did he even still—?

"L-Lizhi?” Red crept up his cheeks. Her own were hot, even in the chill air. He bowed, and Lizhi realized that she’d forgotten. She blushed even more. “Ah. How are you?”

She didn’t even know what she said. All she could think about was how miserably awkward she felt—how  _he_ must feel, to go by his stammered, unconnected questions—and yet how much more natural he seemed. He  _fit_ here, in his deep blue furs, amid the snow and ice and flowing water. His element, but she thought she might fit too.


	13. Crawfords, after MP

“You mean to say, you will not fall in love.”  
  
Mary looked into Edmund Bertram’s tranquil blue eyes, and for one wild moment, almost decided to marry him. “Oh, no!” she cried, then blushed, glancing away. “I am in love.”  
  
“I—er—” He consulted the script. “Are in love! And with the Count?”  
  
“I wish …"  She wished any number of things, all of them the silly, nonsensical stuff of tragedies.  
  
She hated tragedy.    
  
It was poor Mr Rushworth who saved her—Mr Rushworth, desperately practising his two-and-forty speeches with Miss Price, as far from the image of a rakish count as could be imagined. Mary laughed.    
  
"I beg your pardon, Mr Bertram; I am a terribly whimsical creature, you know. Now, where were we? Ah, of course. —I wish I was, because  _he_  would, perhaps, love me again.”  
  
“Who is there who would not?” exclaimed Edmund, with such feeling as to really persuade her that, except for the trifling obstacle of his ordination, he was now in her power. The thought was enough to make her almost forget all her other vexations. Thank heavens for Messrs Bertram and Yates, and their determination to act—she had never been happier …  
  
When it was all over, she said to her brother, “Henry, in the future do keep me from younger sons. I am quite out of patience with them.”  
  
They exchanged a single understanding look, then laughed together. Mr and Miss Crawford of Everingham, not good enough for a country clergyman and his penniless cousin. How amusing! how perfectly laughable! What a diverting story it would make, if only someone would believe it!  
  


* * *

  
Two years later, Mr Crawford marched into his sister’s parlour, flung himself on a chair, and examined the ceiling. “Mary,” he said, “I require your opinion—nay, your approval.”  
  
“Are you feverish?”  
  
“No, but you will undoubtedly believe I am, when I tell you about my present scheme.”  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are having one of your virtuous fits, aren’t you? My dear Henry, you can hardly look to  _me_  as an example.”  
  
“I have been thinking of settling at Everingham,” said he, “not for the hunting, but really settling, for perhaps three or four months out of the year. You must come with me, Mary; we shall find you some prim old tabby of a companion, and it will all be very respectable.”  
  
Mary’s fingers froze on the harp-strings. In the year eight, her brother had been far too caught up in his own carefree existence to oblige her in this, and though he was less wild now, the very idea seemed preposterous.  “I! I, accompany you to Everingham!—why—Henry—Henry, you cannot possibly be serious.”  
  
“Of course I am. You must come and do the honours of the house. I know you dislike the country, but this place is so small and confined, surely you would prefer to preside over your own home? Even if not—think, Mary, of  _me._  Do it for my sake.” He cast her the same beseeching look she remembered from their childhood escapades.  
  
“I cannot understand you, Henry,” she told him. “Why do you wish to go? You never have before—your agent cannot possibly have grown any more incompetent—I thought perhaps an assignation with some neighbour, but you would not want me for that.”  
  
“Indeed not,” he said, chuckling. “No, nothing so simple. It is only—there is nothing to do here, or rather, nothing worth doing. I am in urgent need of a diversion, a serious one. Then I thought of you, subject to the whims of our sister, whatever her other excellencies. I always hated the idea, you know.”  
  
Mary smiled. “Yes,” she said affectionately, “I know.”  
  
“Then the solution came to me—Everingham, of course! We shall brave the countryside again. Do you think you can bear it?”  
  
“If you promise to transport my harp and protect me from younger sons, I can bear anything.”  
  
He laughed outright.  “Consider it done.”


	14. Darcy/Elizabeth, tolerance

Before she loved him, she wanted him to be different: partly because of his actual wrongs, but to a large extent because his very nature felt like a personal affront. He should be more like his friends, more like her, anyone but who he was. Afterwards, though, she loved him all the more for being so resolutely himself.

He would change in the years to come, she thought, but not very much, and certainly not now. There was a familiar strained, tired look creeping over his face; she’d seen it on him before, though never really understood it, and on her sister’s countless times. Once she would have told him, lightly and charmingly, to try harder. Now, she firmly said,  _go to my father’s study, it is very quiet, and I am sure he has something for you to read._


	15. Georgiana & Crawfords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Georgiana and the Crawfords for the three-sentence meme.

Insofar as Georgiana Darcy could dislike anyone who had not personally injured her or her family, she disliked the Crawfords. Mr Crawford was not duplicitous, as Wickham had been; there was something open and straightforward about his charm, his consciously pleasing address, but he made her remember, and she hated remembering.

Miss Crawford did not remind her of anyone, but  _Elizabeth_ disliked her, which was enough for Georgiana; Elizabeth’s judgment, unlike her own, could not err.


	16. Darcy/Elizabeth, parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon prompted "Darcy/Elizabeth, being parents (how do kids work????)"
> 
> This is canon for the _Comforts and Consequences_ verse!

Bella dreaded the day when she would do something terribly wrong—break a vase, or raise her voice, or displease her cousins. Her imagination, not usually vivid, furnished her with bright images of the servants dragging her before her uncle Darcy, of Aunt Darcy slapping her, one of the stern footmen tossing her out of the house. Perhaps they would not bother to send her home—perhaps she would only go to live with her uncle and aunt Stanley in the parsonage—but she still shuddered to think about it.

It never happened.

Oh, she did make mistakes. But when she accidentally started talking too loudly, nobody scolded her. Sometimes Mrs Darcy gave her a meaningful smile or Mr Darcy looked startled; more often, Kit or Georgiana would join in, or say  _I heard you before_. It was embarrassing, but nobody seemed to much care. And when she got so angry at Kit that her hands shook and the teacup she was holding smashed on the floor, she  _did_ get scolded, but just a little, and not for very long. Mrs Darcy told her it would be better if she told Kit exactly what she thought of him instead of destroying china, then set her a page of lines,  _I shall not break dishes_. _  
_

Lectures and punishment almost always came from Mrs Darcy, stern for a moment—she’d raise her voice on particularly severe occasions—then laughing again. Bella wasn’t sure if anyone ever even told Mr Darcy about the children’s misdeeds, until one day when she heard voices in his study. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he still frightened her and the door was open, so Bella just crept slowly past.

“Your turn, Papa,” one of the voices said.

It was Lizzy, the oldest and most severe of her Darcy cousins. She was very beautiful and very quiet; Bella was afraid of her, too, a little bit.

“Did you hear what Georgiana and Bella did?”

Bella froze.

“ _And_ Bella?” said Mr Darcy.

“Well, everyone knows it was all Georgiana’s doing, but you know how they are. Bella would jump into the river if Georgiana thought it a good idea.”

Mr Darcy just sighed, then laughed.

He did  _not_ laugh when Georgiana and Bella really did fall into the river. That was Georgiana’s idea, too—they’d been told to stay off the bridge until it could be repaired, but Georgiana was sure it would be strong enough. Bella didn’t think so, but she couldn’t bring herself to argue with her cousin, so they ran across together and just managed to cling to some branches growing off the banks. 

Once they were safe and warm in the house, wrapped in blankets with tea in their hands, Mr and Mrs Darcy got the whole story out of them. Bella kept glancing at her uncle, expecting—she didn’t know what—but it was Mrs Darcy who lost her temper. Mr Darcy just stood behind his wife, hand on her shoulder, while she snapped at them for what felt like an hour, though it could only have been a few minutes, and was only at Georgiana, anyway. Bella sat by, awkward and nervous; then she nearly ruined another cup when Mr Darcy said her name.

“Y-yes, sir?”

“Your cousin has yet to learn that she is not immortal,” he said, voice flat. Georgiana flushed scarlet. “But you knew that the bridge was not safe?”

It was only barely a question.  ”Yes, sir.”

“And that the river was dangerous after the flooding?”

“Yes, sir.”

He took a few steps away from Mrs Darcy, frowning down at both girls. Georgiana’s merry blue-grey eyes were very cold in his face. Bella almost wished she  _had_ drowned.

“And you said nothing?”

She lowered her eyes to her tea. “No, sir.”

“I wouldn’t have listened, Papa,” said Georgiana, with surprising honesty.

“Georgiana Darcy, I believe that  _you_ have spoken quite enough today.” His gaze returned to Bella. “As for you, Isabella, we had hoped your sense might rub off on your cousin—that you might influence her for the better.” _  
_

Bella’s mouth dropped open. She had never, not for one moment, considered that her place at Pemberley might benefit anyone here but herself. Her mother had said she was impossibly lucky to be taken in at Pemberley, her older brother and sister that everything depended upon her, her aunt Stanley that she must never forget to be grateful, never forget what she owed the Darcy family.

"I am disappointed,” said Mr Darcy.

That was all. But Georgiana and Bella started to cry. And ten years later, when Bella’s childish misdeeds and their consequences all blurred together, and her parents receded into dim impressions of unhappiness and shouting, that moment stood out bright and clear in her memory. Her magnificent uncle and aunt were disappointed in her. 

And they had thought Georgiana, bright fearless Georgiana, their own daughter, might learn from  _Bella_.

(Mrs Darcy promptly hugged and kissed them both; Mr Darcy patted Bella’s shoulder and Georgiana’s head, and said,  _well, no harm done_ —but that part she did not remember as often.)


	17. Darcy/Elizabeth/Fitzwilliam, ATLA AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heckofabecca prompted "Darcy/Lizzie/Fitzwilliam with BENDING" for the three-sentence meme.
> 
> I don't think I ever decided if it's in the same continuity as the other Lizhi/Darak fic, but definitely built off the same ideas.

Lizhi hadn’t told her parents about Darak and Koru; she hadn’t even told Zhen. And here, too, they had to hide the truth; in the streets of the city, they were Darak the waterbending master and his foreign wife and his cousin.

Now, though, safe within the icy walls of their home, they were just Li-zhi and Darak and Koru, Li-zhi and Koru sprawled out on their furs, Darak pressed close between them.


End file.
